


Vertigo

by ironspydxr



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Peter Parker, BAMF Tony Stark, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Imbalance, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Therapy, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:54:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23774917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironspydxr/pseuds/ironspydxr
Summary: Everyone’s back. Except for one.Getting back into his quotidian friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man routine has proven to be difficult for our Peter Parker. With nightmares plaguing his mind at night, and his morality breaking by the day, Peter finds life without his superhero idol not worth living.Tony? Well, Tony’s fucked up too. His grandiose ideas of wanting to not corrupt the little spider has gone awry, and he needs a new plan, because, fuck, Peter just keeps coming back and he can’t stay away from the kid.As for Peter, he meets new people, comes to trust them and believe in them, but the Parker luck has a way of wriggling itself in situations where it’s entirely unwelcome.Oh, and Quentin Beck comes in to save (fuck up) the day.{Yes, the summary will remain ambiguous because it’s just a rollercoaster of feels and plot that y’all will just have to hop in and take a ride to figure it out. I’m a terrible writer lmao}
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	Vertigo

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, so this is my first time posting on here and first time attempting a Starker fic. Bare in mind, I would never encourage a relationship like this irl without it being completely legal, but in the fictional world where it is not real, I really hope you enjoy this! 
> 
> Peter is, of course, above the age of 18 and Tony is 34 (I’m imagining him from Iron Man 1 and onwards), but the events of Endgame have already occurred. This is a canon divergence from Far From Home.

Now, this may seem like an usual errand for Colonel Rhodes, but something about Tony is off—he’s slipping.

Rhodey wades his way through the ocean of opened bottles of liquor and— _is that straight vodka? Tony would never, what the fu_ —it heavily smells like the state of the room has been building up for the past several days, weeks at most. Slowly, the stench of alcohol and sweat reeks the whole tower, leaving an unpleasant feeling in one’s gut; it really reflects the mental state of the man responsible for it. Where are all the cleaning robots? Or the maids?

The penthouse, specifically the main hall and living room, looks so trashed, Rhodey briefly wonders if they let Bruce run loose in here. Nevertheless, the chaos of strewn electrical bits and bobs are scattered across the floor, spanning the whole length, following a record-breaking, ugly scorch mark on the side of the wall, the expensive thousand-count thread rug shrivelled underneath. On the rug, sits the top half of Mark 42 with its impenetrable mask gazing into Rhodey’s soul. It feels like it’s pleading for help. Numerous glasses of single-malt scotch remain empty and plates of ordered Pad Thai lie scrunched up on the Rolls-Royce titanium coffee table, which is in front of the large and uncomfortable-looking sofa. It honestly looks like a high school rave party happened here and Rhodey wasn’t informed about it. Because he _wasn’t._

Lying in a heap, Tony mumbles something in his sleep, the sofa sinking in weight on one side as he shifts to face the coffee table. His arm unfolds to lie on the table and his face looks slightly strained. Pepper Potts, who had come in with Rhodey, makes herself known with a large sigh.

“Should we even bother?” Rhodey asks mostly to himself, full of resignation. 

“We have to,” Pepper shakes her head regrettably. “The PR team is awaiting his arrival today and they need his signature, if we’re to move forward with the green campaign to reduce carbon emissions to 30%, the ideal rate in which cash flow won’t be exponentially affected—“ Pepper gets interrupted in the midst of her tedious sermon. She seems tired, if the streaks of lines on her unblemished forehead and fingers rubbing at her temple have anything to say.

“—I know, Pepper, I know how important this is. It’s just—we haven’t seen him like this since Obadiah Stane, you know? Hell, it looks even worse, Pepper. Does it have to be done now? Can’t the PR team wait another—“

“—No. They can’t. I...I understand that the Snap wasn’t too long ago, and that everyone needs time to adjust and heal, most of all, but he can’t go on like this anymore. It’s been one year since everyone died. Six months since everyone’s been back. Either,” she reins in her voice before it breaks unwittingly, “you assign him a shrink or I will, whether he likes it or not.”

Rhodey couldn’t think of much else to say, so he just nods solemnly.

Pepper leans forward, both of them now looming over Tony’s limp and slumped figure. 

Lightly, she taps his shoulder and says gently, “Tony, wake up please, you need to get ready,” he stirs, eyes fluttering and straining against the swathes of illuminating orange light that washes through the ceiling to floor window.

Midtown Manhattan is bustling with workers and filled with blaring horns from impatient cars, but of course, you can’t hear or see any of that when you're 90 floors above the ground. 

“Tony.” Rhodey says more firmly. 

In a flurry of frenzy, Tony zooms upwards, and in a second too late, the Repulsor on the hand that was hidden shoots a crackle of pure ionised energy out above his head. It ricochets off the platinum chandelier and hurtles towards the liquor cabinet. There’s a huge boom and glass shattering and all that’s left are ashes. 

It all happens so fast that Rhodey and Pepper are left blinking and ducking their heads. 

“What the _fuck,_ Tones?” Rhodey declares but he fails to see the feverish look on Tony’s face, all pale and dull, droplets of cold sweat dripping from the side of his face, and breath coming out fast and laboured. There’s a wild look in his eyes, like he’d seen his worst nightmare. (He already has and it’s already happened a year ago).

A pin drop of silence. 

“Tony...?” 

Another moment of silence stretches across the room, echoing as it goes. 

“Huh? Oh hey, Rhodes.” Tony’s eyes lose their darkness, instantly lighting up and as quick as the moment of delirium came, it disappeared as if the events of the past few minutes didn’t just happen. “And, uh Pep? Oh shit, is it Wednesday already?” 

Rhodey and Pepper give each other a knowing look.

“Tony, the PR Department needs your approval and...it’s not just that, the world needs to see you, they need to know that their Iron Man is doing well. With everyone struggling after the Snap, they need moral support, you know, they need their hero...”

Tony’s smile drops a smidge and Rhodey can see the inner workings of his jaw as Tony tightens his teeth. He looks away. 

“Hey, Tones. You know, the whole gang is waiting on you to band back together, like the Beatles. Come on!” Rhodey cuts in cheerfully. “And I know someone’s been waiting on you, the kid’s—“ his throat bobbing, Tony’s eyes suddenly flit to Rhodey, “—wanted to see you for the past 6 months, but we told him that it wasn’t a good idea at the time.” 

Peter. It’s about time he saw the kid. He can’t avoid him forever, or the world for that matter. It’s been six months, for fuck’s sake. And to be fair, he desperately misses the chipper, bright-eyed and gleeful excitement of _‘Mr Stark!’_.

Honestly, they ought to put him in prison for wanting that or perhaps, he should go into another depressive slumber so he isn’t a fucking burden to society. Then he remembers how Peter is practically the only reason he worked so hard to win against Thanos. 

No. Yeah. He can’t. Right, well then. Tony stands up, albeit a bit wobbly that Rhodey has to steady him. 

“Okay.”

“...Okay what?” Pepper questions.

“Set up a press conference, get a group engagement with S.H.I.E.L.D and Fury. We’re getting the band back together. Yeah, I’ll come back.” Tony claps his hands together, his usual flippant smugness settling in place. “And let’s throw a party in the name of our return, how about that?”

No sound comes from either of them. 

Until: “That’s it?” comes the small question from Pepper, her voice betraying the implication of a catch in Tony’s easy transition. 

“Yeah. That’s it.” Tony smiles genuinely without strain this time, like everything wasn’t just out of proportion 20 minutes ago. 

“Oh. _Oh_. Okay! Well, I’d better start getting everything ready.” Her voice shows a hint of mild excitement. “Alright, phew! Thank you, Tony. I’ll see you at 8? For the signing?” 

She leaves in a flurry yet still elegantly after kissing him goodbye, her gorgeous golden head of hair shining more brightly and orangier in the dusk of new beginnings. The flames from the tips of her hair only served to burn more ferociously, a stark contrast to her perfectly tailored ivory skirt-suit. She’s everything Stark Industries needs. Not sure they would’ve survived without her. _I don’t think I would’ve survived without her,_ he thinks. 

She was the perfect PA of the self-destructive playboy billionaire, in which she had to be the sane and pragmatic face of Stark Industries, whenever Tony's off getting wasted on a private island or crashing a robot into the Chrysler building. 

But now? Now, she’s the CEO of Stark Industries.

Like she was always born to be. 

“...Tony? Hello? Earth to Tones?”

Tony looks back at Rhodey. His best friend. The one who keeps him at bay when things go haywire. The one who’s always stood by him. The one who got hurt because of him. 

“You still love her, don’t you?” 

The sun peers over the edge of the horizon, casting an aureate glow over the city that disguises the chilly winds of Autumn. 

“Yes, but not in the way you think. I don’t deserve her, Rhodey,” he walks over to the window to stretch out his sore muscles, “she’s left for good this time. And I think it’s for the best. We don’t have what we used to before, and I think that’s also fine. I don’t want to keep burdening her.”

Rhodey joins him at the window and puts a hand on his shoulder, “You know, you’ll never be a burden to her, she loves you.” A pause. “However, you wanna tell me what that is on your island?”

He points to the kitchen island, which connects the kitchen to the living room in a wide, sweeping arc. A large Stark Industries box remains latched open with a red satin bow attached prettily on the outside. Inside, several new gadgets sit snugly all around a gleaming, new suit? 

“Is that Peter’s birthday gift?” Rhodey asks.

After a moment, Tony nods.

“Tony, his birthday was almost 3 damn months ago, man.” He says in an incredulous tone, which is shortly diffused. “Alright, whatever, never-mind, but I feel like I have to tell you, seeing as you’re his mentor. The kid’s...not been doing great. The battle really took a toll on him, it’s messed up, man. First his parents, then his uncle, kid’s lost a lot of people. You know him, he worships you—“ Rhodey trails on, which was getting frustrating.

_Something happened with Peter?_

“What? Rhodes? What happened to Peter, stop beating around the bush and just tell me.” Tony takes a step towards Rhodey, completely blocking his way out. He thinks the worst and for once, he hopes his hypothesis is proven entirely wrong. 

“He almost...lost you too, Tony. We all almost did. It didn’t do well for his health. I’ve been keeping an eye on him through F.R.I.D.A.Y,” Rhodey’s voice raises in anger, “because you’ve been fucking MIA for six months! He’s lost it, his aunt’s even more worried about him. He’s doing everything even you shouldn’t be doing. Last I saw him, he was black and blue! His aunt said she hasn’t seen a day where he looked remotely healthy since being back and that he’s being uncharacteristically distant.”

“What...?” Tony’s question seems lost in Rhodey’s tirade, his mind racing, guilt suddenly inking his veins in a poisonous path, the internal contractions in his stomach feel like it’s knifing at his muscles. 

“I had to have Strange check him out and it turns out he had multiple fractures and internal bleeding that was left untreated for several weeks, maybe months. He’s the friendly neighbourhood Spider-man? Yeah well, there’s been nothing friendly about what he’s been up to in the last 6 months. With him gone after the snap, Queen’s crime rate shot up in the midst of everything. He thinks it’s his fault. Like usual, he’s stopped many burglary attempts, battery, thefts and minor assaults, but majority of them all were felonies. But there were a few homicides that he couldn’t stop, and...there was a rape case that he couldn’t get to in time. Do you know what he did?” Rhodey’s voice goes quiet, like he was still in shock himself, before he broke into a fit of outrage again. “He hunted the pervert down for two months! Two months before he broke the guy’s kneecaps and spine, he almost killed him, Tony! That’s not our Spider-Man. There was almost no remorse in his actions, he’s suddenly become this anti-hero.” 

Then, after a second of suffocating silence: “But that’s not the point, is it? It’s like he never came back from the Soul Realm. We don’t know what he saw in there, Tony. And only you can help him. You know that. I’m pretty sure he believes you died after the battle. He blames himself for what’s happened in Queens, for all the crimes he couldn’t stop, _for your absence._ ”

Rhodey’s looking at him vehemently, concentrating his anger into his gaze. Perhaps, part of Rhodey’s anger about Peter also mixes with his own. Perhaps, he’s blaming Tony for not being there for him, Rhodey. 

“And for what?! So you could wallow in your own misery? Locking yourself away for six months with no outside contact, much less with your own best friend? As if that would keep you safe from the aftermath, from whatever the fucked up shit goes on inside that brain of yours. You can’t self-destruct this time, Tony. I—“ He exhales forcefully, attempting to calm down, “—we need you, the kid needs you.”

The unspoken _I need you_ lingers in the air. Rhodey’s right, he always is, he has to be stronger. He can’t always stick his head into a hole when things don’t go right. Not this time. Enough is enough. The information about Peter only provides a better incentive for him to come back. Peter. Fuck, fuck man. He feels personally responsible, because Peter wouldn’t have faced Thanos, wouldn’t have got into that ship if it weren’t for Tony and his goddamn attachment issues. He could’ve made the kid go back even before the Civil War. He never should’ve even recruited him. It’s his fault Peter’s like this now. He needs to set things right. 

~

**Three Days later...**

  
Friday nights like these always brought a sombre mood, a breeze that seemed to just slightly graze the chilly mark and desperately tried to lull him to sleep forever. 

And tonight is no different. 

Every day, at night, he’d climb up the Skyline Tower (to the very top) to watch over the residents that were out past even their bedtimes. It’s become a habit, at this point. His fear of heights had died as soon as his powers became innate and a fundamental foundation of his body and mind since he was 14. 

But he’s been Spider-Man for 8 years now, he doesn’t even think a climb up to Everest would faze him. 

He had reached the planet’s atmosphere at an alarmingly rapid speed and survived a year ago, what’s a little building? 

_Pete, you gotta let go, I’m gonna catch you._

Up here, his Spidey-senses never went haywire, allowing his instincts to breathe and rest. It’s so beautiful. His feet are glued in place to the side of the tower, as the world itself tilts sideways. He watches the city that never sleeps, roads swimming in car headlights and shiny red, yellow and green. Then, he rotates his body to face the stars gleaming above, his back overlooking the deadly drop of 250 meters. From a non-powered human’s perspective, the roads and civilians are practically invisible in the dark abyss below. He can still feel the remnants of the oxygen being sucked out of him at this height, a disorientating flashback of that day being the beginning of his unraveling. He should’ve stayed put when asked of him, but instead he went ahead and climbed that Q-Ship. Because it’s not like he could have saved Mr Stark either way, so what use is he?

_I can’t breathe._

_We’re too high up, you’re running out of air_.

His mind is over-run with Mr. Stark’s voice, his panic-ridden voice that once called out to him to let go, because he knows how much Peter trusts him. He’s gasping for air that seems out of reach. Peter sees the stars blur together, merging with one another as his eyes gloss over. 

_Pete, you gotta let go._

All he can hear is Mr. Stark — a mantra of his familiar and soothing voice — considering his over-sensitive ears can even pick up the shouting of a crazy drunkard by 45th Avenue (which was 5 blocks away) even at this height. His throat feels constricted, like someone has a weighted hand wrapped around his neck tightly. 

_I’m gonna catch you_. 

The miniature scopulae hairs that allows him to adhere to any surface at his will, starts to lose its grip. He’s slipping, physically and mentally, and he doesn’t even realise. He remembers his consciousness slipping that day, his eyes shuttering close.

_Let go._

He wants to let go. 

_Let go._

He wants to fall into Mr Stark’s arms. 

_Let go._

And he’s falling. 

He’s falling fast, his reflection in the polished windows of the tower racing eagerly against his own body for the bottom. The windows are passing by in a blur as the wind whips around like a wild cat, roaring and hissing. He doesn’t realise it but he’s now 200 meters above the surface. 

190 meters. 170 meters.

A smear of rufescent gold twinkles in the sky; he feels as though he can see Mr Stark, in all his glimmering glossy glory, propelling himself towards Peter’s free-falling body. He looks so far away yet so close, but Peter’s mind is hazy with his feelings all toppling over, and he can’t understand _why_ he’s letting himself fall like this. 

140 meters. 

His ribcage pushes against his chest and skin uncomfortably; everything inside is trying to tear through, overpowered by air resistance working against gravity. There’s a slight burning sensation that’s demanding him to focus, but his mind is somewhere far away. 

120 meters. 90 meters. 

Everything slows to nanoseconds as the very celestial and spatial clocks of time come to a stop, and he can see the distinct droplets of his own tears in the air, floating above him like thousands of diamonds. Mr Stark’s arm reaches forward, fingers stretching out for his own, but it starts to dissolve into transparency.

Can he reach him this time?

70 meters. 60 meters. 50 meters. 

The sensation becomes more noticeable; sweltering and unbearably scorching, spreading fervid flames through his muscles like a sports car’s fire engine being ignited. 

Uncertain, Peter’s own arm comes out, tired and drained of energy or desire to carry on.

Their fingertips meet. 

Mr Stark disappears suddenly, vanishing back into the golden twinkle in the night sky. And all of a sudden, he’s able to finally comprehend the severity of his situation, having broken out of his deadly trance 

40 meters. 30 meters. 20 meters. 

All but his heart stops, the loud thumping of it ringing so prominently in his ears, and he doesn’t think there will be anything more painful and tormenting than realising that Mr Stark won’t be here to catch him again. 

10 meters—9...8...7... _6 meters!_

He finally recognises the earsplitting, and agonising sensation as his Spidey Senses screaming of his incoming doom. Lately, they have been alerting him in the form of minor aneurysms that feel as though someone took a pick-axe and swung it over his head. 

However, Peter shuts off the solemn feelings and quickly pulls his mask down to turn around and dive into a web-throw to the nearest building, barely scraping the heads of unsuspecting civilians. (He’s pretty sure he heard a terrified scream right below him and several other gasps and shouts; to be completely fair, he _was_ hurtling at a speed of 125 mph.) He catapults himself across the air, flying for the first few moments before his mind caught up with what just happened. 

He was heading for his death.

And he _allowed_ it to happen. 

Webbing his way through the busy roads, heart leaden with indifference as he forces his frazzled thoughts away, he jumps onto the Queens Boulevard, heading back home to Forest Hills. He zip-lines building from building, effortlessly passing through the five lanes of fast-moving traffic, occasionally feathering the roofs of cars with his feet due to drag and friction to give himself an extra boost. 

Halfway down his journey, Peter hears the telltale signs of a terrified voice. Instinctively, his hearing zeros in on the voice; the shallowness of breath and the increasing intensity of the fear only leads Peter to assume the worst. 

Danger!

Peter halts in his swinging and drops abruptly to the ground, causing a domino effect of vehicles skidding to a stop behind him. A car comes close to hitting him in the side before he’s off, running down an interconnected dark passage. He uses the voice to navigate his way through the damp alleyways until he’s in front of a scene unfolding nastily. 

Frowning at the sight, Peter crouches by the wall, camouflaging in the darkness because of his black Kevlar Stealth suit as he glares down at a man, in his late 20s, holding a woman roughly against the side of an apartment complex. He has his body pressed flush against hers, making her tremble and cower. 

“Where do you think you’ve been? Last I recall, I told you weren’t allowed out tonight. Look at you, dressed like the whore you are.” The man’s gruff, authoritative voice breaks through the silence. His hands dipped to touch her hips, but Peter didn’t miss the hitch in her breath. Peter has a slight notion just for a fleeting moment that this might be some sick role-play he’s stumbled into, that he shouldn’t be watching this, but that clears as soon as he sees the _unadulterated_ terror on her face. 

_It’s not a joke..._

The woman, who might be around Peter’s age, looks slightly pissed and sloshed but scared, nonetheless. Like grey storms gathering, her wide eyes thundered with a familiar fear. Peter didn’t want to interfere just yet, in case the woman started screaming, but something about the atmosphere around the shaken woman tells Peter that she knows this man very well; that this isn’t just a random attack. 

“Eddie, please, just wanted to have some fu—“

The man, named Eddie, raises his voice in anger, interrupting and speaking over her tiny voice, “Some fun!”

His insane demeanour (eyes widening that of manically and deliriously) immediately flits to a look of regret after seeing her visibly flinch, as his hands travel up the length of her arms until they land heavily on her shoulder, as if to ground her from escaping. 

Strained, he gives her a small, self-reproachable smile. 

“You wouldn’t leave me,” he whispers, desperation and insecurity leaking, “would you?”

She takes a second too long to answer and fear settles in where joy could not for the unstable man. 

Frantic, he cries out, “No, no no...I can be plenty fun! You can have so much fun with me, remember? I’ll show you...” his eyes flash with madness, “Ashlynn, I’ll make you remember all of our memories together!”

At this point, his hands have gradually travelled to her neck and is now wrapped around, intending to squeeze. Peter’s seething behind the wall. Peter still doesn’t interfere, although is itching to do so. Perhaps, he’s waiting for the man to say or do something completely despicable, give Peter a 100% justifiable reason to do what he wants to do deep, deep inside; _maim to the brink of death._

His fingers tighten many fractions, flexing brutally over the soft flesh of her small throat. As the air slowly gets cut off, a bright pink, mixed with red swells up her face.

She chokes, “Plea–se, Eddie—“

“SHUT UP!”

At those words, he suddenly pulls her neck and slams the force of her head into the concrete wall, still pinning her against the wall. She wails from the connection her skull made and sobs and wretches loudly.

“I said shut up, you cunt!” He brings one of his hands over her face with a stinging smack, the print of his hand leaving a very prominent red welt. She whimpers like a wounded animal, too afraid to make a sound for she may fall victim to another of his painful assaults. 

Uncaring of his violent actions, he pushes his face into the crook of her neck and breathes with a lone finger on her lips, “sh, sh, sh, sh...”

Peter can’t look anymore as a third degree rage burns through him, but what he hears next makes all hell break loose inside of him. 

“You know what,” the disgusting man slurs, “you were just a good fuck...”

All Peter could see in the next second was white, hot fury blinding him as he felt his right hook connecting perfectly with man’s jaw, leaving a resounding CRACK to echo in the narrow alleyway. 

“You vile piece of shit!” Peter bellows through his mask. 

The man flies into the trash bags further back into the alley, cushioning his fall, which only seemed to make Peter angrier. Menacingly, Peter storms up to the man and raises him up by the collar to land another punch. His head splits and bangs against the large metal bin container as his knees give out from underneath him. Peter raises and swings his foot into the man’s chest, knocking the air right out of him; his cough splattering blood on the ground in front of him. 

He does it again. And again. And again. He can’t seem to stop. Why can’t he fucking stop? The ferocity of his wrath and adrenaline has him forgetting to breath, his chest heaves up and down as he fails to think and see rationally still. He’s going to kill this guy, if he doesn’t stop. Every merciless kick reverberates the feeling of broken ribs across his body. He needs to stop. Blurry and fuzzy, his mind spots with a dark wave of red heat. 

_The old Peter wouldn’t do this. Does that mean I’m no longer the person I used to be? I don’t want to lose my conscience, no, please, stop!_

“ _NO!_ No, please,” the woman begs as she rushes to his stand in the way of Peter’s foot and the man, “Spider-Man, please. Let him go! I beg you. He didn’t mean it!”

His senses come back just in time for him to halt his movements abruptly. He takes in the scene around him and fears the worst.

_Did I kill him...?_

The man in question groans in pain and hiccoughs some more blood. She waves her hand in front of him in a panicked manner, “Please, don’t kill him. He’s just messed up, he didn’t mean it! Don’t hurt him, please. Please. Please!”

“Why...?” The word comes out broken and without his consent, it’s wispy sound is a striking contrast to the dead silence of the night. 

She looks at him with wide doe eyes and he realises that she couldn’t have comprehended the millions of layers of meaning hiding behind the one-syllable word. 

Why has he turned into this person? He’s no better than the foul freak keeling on the floor, battling to breathe. Why can he judge whether this man lives or not? Why does she want to protect her perpetrator? Why does she hope to redeem this detestable monster, who dehumanises her? Why is she looking at, not the filth next to her, but him, _Spider-Man_ , with fear? 

_Why?_

Then, she looks at him with a look of pure despondency and shame, voice laced with drops of melancholy, yet absolute passion, that it breaks him into several pieces and drives his abandoned emotions back inside of him full force when she says: 

“ _I love him._ ”

Images and flashes of his own soul-crushing unrequited love bleeds through his forced uncaring heart, as unplanned tears fall into his mask, and he is grateful for the facade it provides. He needs to get out of here, or else he’s going to break down right in front of this stranger. 

Whipping around, he launches a web and swings into the night sky, leaving the woman and the abusive bastard behind without a word. 

As he gets back on his original destination, he thinks of all that has happened today and the past few days and feels pangs of anguish for his person. 

Eyes drowsy and streaked with tears, Peter reaches home to his bed with a heart heavier than he’s ever felt since Uncle Ben. 

  
  



End file.
